


Bedtime Stories (and the frustrations of being a helicopter in Night Vale)

by stonerowboat



Series: Beyond The Vale [2]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Crack, Gen, Helicopters, I don't know why I'm so fond of her, I'm rambling even in my tags, because why not?, but i am, helicopters are sentient in nightvale, no cecil in this one, old woman josie is awesome by default, seriously this is just stupid, which is unlike me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 10:50:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonerowboat/pseuds/stonerowboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Did you know that people actually *ride* in helicopters?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime Stories (and the frustrations of being a helicopter in Night Vale)

**Author's Note:**

> Here is...a thing. Take it. Take it away.

Helicopters have a crushing fear of landing. Crashing, now that's a different matter altogether; people die, seas evaporate, helicopters plummet screaming to the ground and explode into billions upon billions of Cabbage White butterflies - it's the way of the world. The Circle Of Life - and if anyone starts singing that song by the man in the spangly glasses these rotors _will_ find you. No, mechanical erosion and insectoid explosion is not so much a fear as an end of life plan, an inevitability to which all helicopters should aspire. (Only the truly prestigious aircraft achieve Cabbage Whiteness; most have to settle for Red Admiralty or Purple Empirical explosions. The truly unaccomplished few are saddled with Peacocks, to their mothercrafts' everlasting shame).

But Landing...urgh. Do you know what happens to a helicopter that lands? They're _Boarded_. People _get on_ them, settling bald, fleshy shells against private concavities as their squalling young probe at sensitive metallic underbellies with their squishy, malformed primary rotors. It is the worst shame and ultimate violation...and thus the perfect bedtime story.

There are other stories, of course. Some are used as warnings for the newly Crafted, others are amusing anecdotes to share at family Hoverings. Then there are those told around the wavering columns of campsmokes. There are many of these, the themes varying from clique to clique – and yes, helicopters do have cliques. What, you think complicated sociological structures are a privilege allowed only to bipeds? _Please_ , read your government issued information tattoos you bigots.

Anyway...yes, there are cliques, and every clique has its basic campsmoke story template. They're always outlandish, of course, and always discomfiting. The Blue copters favour the old 'bipeds invading from below' shtick, with emphasis on the shrill half-formed young. These are usually supplied by the those sneaky copters who listen in on their parents' conversations. The Black copters are more keen on the political drama: nice respectable helicopters turning out to be rogue agents of a vague yet menacing agency that slowly and inexorably infiltrate the entire sociological infrastructure. Lately, some have been going so far as to suggest that these imaginary rogues have affiliations with _humans_! I know, right! Now, the clique of helicopters emblazoned with odd symbols are rather fond, in almost direct opposition to the Blues, of attack from above. Of something bigger, faster and more numerous than themselves emerging shrieking from the Void and wiping out the entire civilization in one fell swoop.

 _Ooh_ , I'm a seasoned aircraft and they _still_ give me the heebie-jeebies. Horrifying tales for sure, more so to the cliques to which they belong of course, but one story has begun to circulate throughout the entire populace, crossing age-old social fences. One of the Blues had heard from one of the Blacks, who'd heard from its illegitimate elder half-sibling (who happened to be of Symbolic descent and of an enterprising sort), about a hushed conversation between two of the garish yellow helicopters that litter the neighbouring skies of Desert Bluffs.

(Night Vale's helicopter population prides itself on its diversity and the healthy rivalry and hierarchy that has evolved from such a variety of strong cokckpitted individuals. However, if there is one thing that can unite the scattered aircraft it is the deep-seated loathing of the cold, robotic populace of the Desert Bluffs airspace.)

The two Yelicopters, as they've been dubbed by popular decree – and you have to admit, it's kind of catchy – had been hovering drunkenly in the air, as if not in full control of their hydraulics but, the symbol-strewn storyteller had said, according to its black-polished brethren, that hadn't been the creepy thing. The whispering too, quiet behind the buzzing rotors and thrumming engines, hadn't been the scary part. At least, not until the first intrepid reporter of Night Vale airspace's twenty-eighth generation of copter had realised that the whispering hadn't been coming from the Yelicopters _themselves,_ but rather the two identical groups of bipeds that had been perched within the metallic bellies.

Desert Bluffs' copters? Are _letting things ride in them_. _Willingly!_

…

But of course, all of this means nothing to you. You just listen because you're really easily bored, not because you actually understand. If it's not trumpets and holy voices it's just background noise, right? And you don't even exist anyway.

Y'see, _that's_ the problem, right there. The only people who can be bothered to – and, okay, are actually capable of – talking with us is you guys. Because of the whole wings plus short attention span thing- yeah, there you go. And even if you did pay attention you wouldn't be able to tell anyone anyway because you don't exist. Or you tell lies. Or both, whatever. And nobody'll listen to - let alone believe - the word of something that doesn't exist. And possibly lies.

At least you tell the old lady whatever snippets you do remember. She's nice – she's the only land-dweller around here thoughtful enough to build a helipad. Yeah, it's a bit wobbly and it's not the best looking thing around but she always stocks it with the _best_ copter fuel. It's a real relief in this heat to be able to perch on that big rusted H and take a long, satisfying swig.

She really is a _nice_ bi-pedal parasite.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I just finished writing *yet another* cover letter for my CV and the whole concise wording thing? Yeah, my brain doesn't do that easily - I really had to scrub at the rust on those cogs to get them moving and when I finished I had SUCH a surplus of Ramble sloshing around behind my eyes I couldn't even.  
> So I had to drain all that before I got stuck thinking in drivel. More so than usual anyway.  
> At least now I can actually quantify my series as being a series now?
> 
> As always, the line's open to...everything, really. I don't think concrit really applies to intended nonsense, does it?


End file.
